For passions linked to forms so fair And stately needs must have their share Of noble sentiment. But ill he lived, much evil saw With men to whom no better law Deliberately and undeceived Those wild men's vices he received, gave them back his own, And His genius and his moral frame A Man who without self-control Would seek what the degraded soul And yet he with no feigned delight Had loved her, night and morn : What could he less than love a Maid Whose heart with so much nature played? So kind and so forlorn! But now the pleasant dream was gone; No hope, no wish remained, not one,- New objects did new pleasure give, As lawless as before. Meanwhile, as thus with him it fared, They for the voyage were prepared, But, when they thither came, the Youth Deserted his poor Bride, and Ruth Could never find him more. "God help thee, Ruth!"-Such pains she had That she in half a year was mad And in a prison housed; And there, exulting in her wrongs, Among the music of her songs She fearfully caroused. Yet sometimes milder hours she knew, Nor wanted sun, nor rain, nor dew, Nor pastimes of the May, -They all were with her in her cell; And a wild brook with cheerful knell Did o'er the pebbles play. When Ruth three seasons thus had lain There came a respite to her pain, But of the Vagrant none took thought; Among the fields she breathed again : The engines of her pain, the tools That shaped her sorrow, rocks and pools, * The Tone is a River of Somersetshire at no great distance from the Quantock Hills. These Hills, which are alluded to a few Stanzas below, are extremely beautiful, and in most places richly covered with Coppice woods. The vernal leaves, she loved them still, Nor ever taxed them with the ill Which had been done to her. A Barn her winter bed supplies; But till the warmth of summer skies And summer days is gone, (And all do in this tale agree) She sleeps beneath the greenwood tree, And other home hath none. An innocent life, yet far astray! And Ruth will, long before her day, Be broken down and old. Sore aches she needs must have! but less Of mind, than body's wretchedness, From damp, and rain, and cold. If she is pressed by want of food, And there she begs at one steep place, That oaten Pipe of hers is mute, Or thrown away; but with a flute This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, I, too, have passed her on the hills By spouts and fountains wild— Such small machinery as she turned Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned, A young and happy Child! Farewell! and when thy days are told, Thy corpse shall buried be; For thee a funeral bell shall ring, |